


in historia glacies

by LunaChi_KuroShihone



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blind Character, Drabble Collection, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Occult, Supernatural Elements, Yuri Plisetsky Is So Done, all the short drabbles and plot bunnies that wouldn't leave me, victor nikiforov is blind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 04:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19968178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaChi_KuroShihone/pseuds/LunaChi_KuroShihone
Summary: a collection for all of my YoI drabbles / plot bunnies that are too short or never seem to go anywhere.Chapter 1: Viktor wakes up, suddenly blindChapter 2: there's a library hidden in Detroit that is not quite what it seems





	1. when Viktor woke up

**Author's Note:**

> this drabble has to be single-handedly the most angst-filled piece I've ever written, courtesy of a prompt back from when the Namida Zine was holding game nights in the discord channel. I love it very much.

When Viktor woke up that morning, his vision was filled with darkness. Not the kind of darkness one would expect from waking up in the middle of the night in a busy city, or even waking up when outside of Saint Petersburg's skyline, where traffic lights and billboards with his face plastered on them were unable to reach him. Not even the darkness of a room with its curtains drawn shut. 

Viktor's vision was simply  _ dark _ , no source of light visible at all, all-encompassing. He leaned on his elbows, very carefully, eyes wide and flickering around in a frantic haze, trying to make out even the smallest bit of shape or form -- to no avail. 

_ All right, Nikiforov, stay calm. This is- probably a prank, nothing else. _

He distributed his weight by sitting up fully, the covers sliding down his skin leaving a hot-white trail behind, his body shuddering all over as he felt the hairs on his arms stand up, and Viktor carefully moved his left hand to his face, hoping to find some mask or something, ignoring the forming ball of lead in his stomach.

There was his chin, and his cheek and lips and nose, and his eyes, both of them, uncovered, his lashes brushing against the pads of his fingers as his hand traveled further up, past his eyebrows and to his hairline. Viktor shuddered, fisting the strands that were hanging into his face as he hunched in on himself, the covers moving as his legs curled up. 

There was a sound to his -- right, maybe, a silent and breathy huff that signaled him that Makka was none-too-happy about his disruption of her sleep, and his right hand tried to creep towards her, only to miss its mark spectacularly, finding empty air instead of his dog.

Viktor flinched back, insides churning in repressed panic, his hand safely cradled between his hunched body, the cold metal of his ring pressing against his heart. His pulse was beating in his ears; he wasn't in his usual spot on the bed -- a terrifying thought, suddenly -- and everything was off-kilter just slightly enough to make him second guess himself.

Feeling a sob trying to claw its way through his throat, Viktor pressed his lips together.

He didn't know if Yuuri was still asleep next to him or not, not daring to reach out in case his fiancé wasn't there. Viktor wouldn't know what to do, if. 

If.

_ If. _

Another sob wracked through his body, and this time he let it loose, ugly and pitiful and desperate. More followed. Viktor curled together even more, his ring digging into his chest while his other hand tore at his hair strongly enough that the Russian felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. They were wide, wide open, but no matter what he did, he  _ couldn't see.  _ No impressions of lights or patterns, no silhouettes, not even varying shades of darkness. His vision was a black void, everything and nothing seeming the same.

Someone tried to shake him, but Viktor paid them no mind. If he couldn't trust his sight anymore, then who's to say that he could trust any of his other senses? Smell, taste, sound -- he thought he'd heard Makka earlier, but maybe he didn't? Maybe it was a delusion conjured up by his mind? Maybe, maybe, mayb--

_ "Shh, Vitya, breathe--"  _ Fingers were digging into his shoulders so strongly they  _ hurt _ , and Viktor sobbed again, this time with relief. Yuuri was there, his Yuuri, holding him in an iron grip that would probably leave bruises come tomorrow, trying to calm him down.

Yuuri  _ was still there _ . 

Suddenly the most important thing was to feel Yuuri, and Viktor unfurled from his position and leaned forward, guided by the hands gripping him, until his shoulder met resistance. Viktor whimpered.  _ "Yuuri-- Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri--" _ He curled against his fiancé's form, his hands crawling up the arms and shoulders and neck of him, cupping the younger skater's cheeks with silent awe and unabashed relief.

Viktor knew Yuuri's face, almost as good as the back of his own hand, and as he explored cheeks and chin and mouth and nose with trembling fingers and shaking hands Yuuri stayed silent, only a soft  _ what's wrong, Vitya? _ escaping his lips. Viktor whimpered again, carefully tapping his forehead against Yuuri's and caressing his face, not caring about the awkward angle and burn in his spine. His eyes still wide and painfully open in the hope of seeing - _ anything, _ really. Their noses pressed together and Viktor could feel Yuuri's uneven breath as he stated, very softly, "You had a panic attack."

_ Oh, so that's what happened. _

Yuuri's own hands came to touch Viktor, one on his cheek, the other one drawing soft figures and patterns into the nape of his neck. "What triggered it, Vitya? Let me help."

Viktor hiccuped another breath, hastily angling Yuuri's face to catch his lips in a wet and desperate kiss, speaking against his lower lip even as his whole body trembled and shuddered again, the anguish clear in his voice. 

_ "I can't see anything, Yuuri." _


	2. smoke and leather

There is a small historical library at the corner of Lodewyck Street, located right next to Balduck Park and across one of the many local ice rinks in the Motor City of Detroit. It is a quaint and homey place, wooden arch and brimstone-black stone winding around each other in quiet harmony, support and structure unanimous. Therein lies rows upon rows of books; old and yellow-worn and new and white-pristine, the essence of ink heavy in the air. It has quite the odd opening hours, doing so willfully and at whim, but it seems to always open its doors for those who are in need of it.

In that library works a man as unassuming as the place itself; a young fellow of twenty-three, with raven-black hair and doe-brown eyes. He works at the register, overlooking the library as its protector, faithful curly-haired dog at his side. A candle lights his desk, and a book lies open atop. Another man can be found inside as well, if one were to come after the busy hours of day: he is pale and ethereal, features androgynous but quite handsome, clothed in a dark mantle with red linings and lapels. His hair is woven starlight and his eyes are as blue as ice, and another curly dog accompanies him, quite larger than the first, but just as friendly.

They can be found conversing in the evenings until the library closes for the night, illuminated by the yellow lamp-light adorning the walls in place of the candles that had been there in wartimes past. Oftentimes, they laugh together, seated comfortably on one of the old leather armchairs, bodies shadowed so as to appear as one. They smile and touch and read, hands entwined, and, if one is a particularly lucky fellow, he or she will be able to see the plain and golden rings reflecting the light.

Once, a new customer of the library had braved to ask the second worker who the mysterious man with the starlit hair is, and the library assistant -- a fellow with chocolate skin, chocolate hair and an eyeliner sharp enough to cut -- had smiled softly, something indescribable shimmering behind his eyes.

"His name is Viktor, and he is very dear to Yuuri."

The small library holds something quite quirky inside; the records of the people who passed and the people who will be, both lost to time and not yet found. A strange amalgamation of history books and tales of wars long since grown cold, next to the shining stories woven of futures yet to come and achievements yet to happen. No romantic tales of knights and kings, nor stories of a true love's kiss can be found between the pages, only stories of war and death and rebirth. There are very little people who stumble through the doors with interest in the writings, and the small library with its protector and its assistant and lone starlit-haired guest are often only visited by the solitude of the city.

Only those who truly  _ need  _ do enter and look at the books; children and grandchildren descended from the soldiers of war, hoping to find closure about their fathers and grandfathers' sacrifices. The faces of the fallen are all recorded in the small library, names and ages and homes written down in inky-black font, generations going past even the birth of the city.

But if one were lucky enough and brave enough to stay in the library past closing time and well into the night, if one had a strong enough wish and desire to see and hear and know of loss and life, then the protector would wait for one behind his desk, hand on his open book and spectacles perched low on his nose. And if one were truly convinced of their wish, their desire, and held no ill will towards the library and anyone inside, they will then see something most peculiar: a small, feather-sized bookmark, made out of the softest of leather and dyed the deepest of reds, will be placed into the book and closed. And then the lamps will flicker out, one by one, until only the yellow light on the desk remained, a candle that the protector will blow out. Smoke will rise from it, thin tendrils weaving through the air and the books and the floor, coalescing into a white mist that lays low.

And in the leather armchair, where the starlit-haired man will be found with his curly-haired dog, there will be a figure so achingly familiar to one that they cannot help but  _ believe.  _ And then one will finally notice that the clothes the starlit-haired man wears are quite old and strange, garments reminiscent of a uniform, of a war, of death.

The person they will meet will be unable to recognize them, sometimes, but that is a small price to pay to see them well and alive and living, despite their passing five, ten, twenty or even two hundred years ago. And all of these ghostly people will say the same, that they have wandered into this quaint little library at the corner next to the park, and that they will leave soon, meeting their demise.

And as the smoke turns into mist around one blonde athlete's feet, and as the fifteen-years-old sees, for the first time since ten years, the familiar form sit in the old armchair, he clutches the worn paper in his hand into a crumpled heap, the ink-black font of the address his coach had given him bleeding, his expression grows into wonder.

_ "Dedushka." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most difficult part of this had been researching _locations_   
> everything else is 100% pure indulgence
> 
> fun fact: Viktor has fallen in love with Yuuri and is the only spirit who knows how his story will end the second he walks out of the bookstore, which is why he and Makka are pretty much bound to the place and call it home, but he's not always corporeal
> 
> fun fact no. 2: this is heavily based off of another fic I wrote, if you want to check it out? It's a Fate / Stay Night one shot called [Ahnenerbe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6427264)


End file.
